A Vital Lesson from My House of Mourning: Faith Reflections from a Cancer Oven (#4)
[A note from our Managing Editor: Tim Shorey, pastor and author, is one of our Gospel-Centered Discipleship staff writers. Tim is also currently battling stage 4 prostate cancer. On Facebook and CaringBridge, he’s writing about his journey. We’re including some of his posts in a series on our website called “The Potter’s Clay: Faith Reflections from a Cancer Oven.” To preserve the feel of a daily journal rather than a published work, we have chosen not to submit these reflections to a rigorous editing process.]
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A Vital Lesson from My House of Mourning
August 13, 2022
Dear Journal,
Having Stage Four cancer with a poor prognosis is like living in a funeral home. It makes you perpetually aware of the transitoriness of life, the fleeting vanity of wealth and health, the inevitability and imminence of death, the nearness of Judgment Day, and the sinner’s (i.e., my) need for Christ. No wonder wise old King Solomon declared a “house of mourning” a better visit than a “house of feasting” (Ecc. 7:1–4). Let’s take a few-minute visit now.
I’m not being morbid, for my peace and joy in this beautiful (but broken) world abound. But a humbling, almost inexpressible reverence seeps into the soul when you know that your time is short—which mine is, whatever the outcome of my cancer. Somehow, death never seems distant when it’s already leased a cancer-room inside you.
I’m becoming profoundly aware—as in bone-deep sobered—that there is a crossing-over that is always near, and ever closer. There’s a red-letter court date on God’s calendar when my name appears on the docket. And in this light, the only thing in life that matters for eternity is what I have thought, said, and done that is authentically of God, and for God. Anything done solely for myself or for the approval and praise of others is Judgment Day chaff to be incinerated into oblivion.
It may seem strange, but I do not run from such thoughts; I run to them (not that I have to run far these days!). I know that the best place to prepare to meet my Maker is in those sobering moments and mournful places where we ponder the fact that someone just has.
Whose Judgment Matters
The apostle Paul writes: “But with me it is a very small thing that I should be judged by you or by any human court. In fact, I do not even judge myself. For I am not aware of anything against myself, but I am not thereby acquitted. It is the Lord who judges me. Therefore do not pronounce judgment before the time, before the Lord comes, who will bring to light the things now hidden in darkness and will disclose the purposes of the heart. Then each one will receive his commendation from God” (1 Cor. 4:1–5). Here is a lesson from my “house of mourning.” As I inch closer and closer to eternity, I’ve come to see that:
It doesn’t much matter what people think of me (v. 3).
It doesn’t much matter what I think of me (v. 4; 1 John 3:19–20).
It mostly, if not only, matters what God, who knows everything about me, thinks of me (v. 4b–5).
The real me is “hidden in darkness”—where only God can see it all. Even I can’t see it all. I don’t know my own heart. How many right things have I left undone? How many wrong things have I all too readily indulged? How many “good” works have I performed more for the eye of man than the eye of God? What are the motives and desires of the heart that I have kept secret, even from myself?
While I don’t see God yet, he sees me now—and will search me then. And when the fire of God’s judging eye has done its consuming work with me, will there be any gold, silver, or precious stones left? Or will much of it be consumed as wood, hay, and straw (1 Cor. 3:11–15)?
For Paul (in 1 Cor. 4:1–5), the reality of divine judgment was both a comfort when unfairly critiqued and, by implication, a check when effusively praised. He didn’t care if people pilloried him or praised him. He knew that both human condemnation and commendation are largely expressions of ignorance. So he didn’t cower before human critique or crave for human approval. Because neither are of any lasting value.
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Dear Father,
Please teach me this vital lesson even more as I see my day approaching. If I’ve sought to be faithful and true to you (no matter how many my flaws and sins), it doesn’t matter if I’m the most criticized man on earth. But if, on the other hand, my works and words have been for the praise of man, it doesn’t matter if I win a Nobel Prize, or Pastor-of-the-Year award.
Lord, my day is fast approaching when the only thing I’ll care about is what you think of me. This makes me concerned only to be found in Christ Jesus, your Son. I need to trust in his atoning blood and covering righteousness alone; for in him alone there is no condemnation (Rom. 5:1; 8:1). And, by the grace you supply, I need to be judged faithful, not by others or by myself, but by you—for your everlasting praise, and my eternal reward.
You are the only all-knowing critic who sees my heart. And your commendation alone, is the only one worth having (1 Cor. 4:5).
Amen.
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These are the kinds of things one thinks about when his cancer-stricken body has, for all practical purposes become his own ever-present “house of mourning.” And I assure you: this isn’t me, being morbid. It may well be me, being the wisest I have ever been (Ecc. 7:4; Ps. 90:12).
~ Tim
* You can read all of the posts in this series here.
Tim Shorey is married to Gayline, his wife of 44 years, and has six grown children and 13 grandchildren. In his 41st year of pastoral ministry, he helps lead Risen Hope Church, in Delaware County, Pennsylvania. Among his books are Respect the Image: Reflecting Human Worth in How We Listen and Talk; 30/30 Hindsight: 30 Reflections on a 30-Year Headache; and his recently released, award-winning An ABC Prayer to Jesus: Praise for Hearts Both Young and Old. To find out more, visit timothyshorey.com.